No Joke
by smilebot
Summary: SeiferxSquall: In which Seifer doesn't know what's going on, Squall's been broken down into his many facets, and the world was just exploding faster than hot trash in the microwave. Yeah, definitely, life was just the greatest fanfare ever.
1. Chapter 1

"Okay, what the _fuck_ is going _on_?"

"Seifer, sit down," Doctor Kadowaki calmly stated, setting down her clipboard on her desk as the blond stomped into her office. "I'll explain everything in a minute."

"_Explain_? _What_? The fact that there are … that there's _one_ Squall, then another, and then … that _guy_, whoever the hell he is." He let out a bitterly hysterical laugh. "Don't tell me my coffee was the source of this shit, because I'm _not_ buying it."

"_Sit_."

Tired and confused, Seifer grit his teeth as he plopped down on the stiff chair, rubbing his temple while he tried very hard to collect his jumbled, frayed thoughts into a chain of coherency. The old doc neutrally rose from her seat and collected a file from her bookshelf before she handed it over to the other—pages turned, brows furrowed, and knuckles drained of color as Seifer scanned over the document, the indignation and perplexity all too apparent on his face that darkened with each passing second. He did not notice the cup of hot coffee set in front of him, nor did he pay any mind to the clinical white of the room that he hated so much: All he perceived was the disgusting words written on the papers—the papers that made no sense to the point where it made complete sense.

"What. The. _Hell._"

"That's pretty much the brief overview of this scenario," said the medic, pushing her glasses further up along the bridge of her nose. "President Loire's team of researchers combined several theories into this axiom: The multiple …" Doctor Kadowaki sat back down on her chair as she chose her words carefully. "Squalls are actually _facets_ of his being. They make up who he is, though they are very different by nature, as you have seen."

"_Bullshit_: You're basically saying that those fifty million … _Kittyharts_ are … _Squall_?"

A sigh. "That's right. So far, we don't know what the cause is, not even the cure. Further observations are being made about this phenomenon, but other than that, there isn't much we can do."

"_Nothing_?"

"Nothing."

"_Damn_."

The gunblader emitted a gruff sound of disdain as he closed his eyes, feeling all too awkward, all too exhausted, in the cramped, little chair that squeaked under his hunched state. For a while, he did not say a word, and instead tossed the file back onto the desk while the doctor quickly scribbled away at her clipboard before she ripped out a page—he did not even feel the paper being placed into his open palms, never mind notice when he stood up with that persistent lady leading him out to the doorway, her hand patting his back in clinical comfort. That bottom message burned into his mind, and his forehead pounded from a major migraine. Shit like this was the last thing he expected when he finally came home after three long months of Galbadian torture.

"I prescribed some medicine for you so that it'll help out with your stress and possible chronic headaches. I'm pretty sure the Balamb pharmacy has this in stock."

"Y-Yeah." God, how his head hurt. He just wanted to leave and sleep like the dead.

"And _Seifer_," she added, knitting her brow in seriousness. "Don't worry too much; everything will be solved rapidly."

" … I hope so."

He sure as hell did.

But too bad things were going to be a tad more than different …


	2. Chapter 2

The early morning bit Seifer in the ass that day, and he found himself wondering when the world decided to take a dump on his life. Makeshift solace came in the form of many pillows and blankets and the cold bed under his tired form: He didn't want to think about the yesterday of hell that had him locking the door to the official Commander of Balamb's quarters—he didn't want to _realize_ that he was not home at all when _the_ home was the Headmaster's room right across from his station's rights. Thus, the three month deployment to Galbadia that had taken the worst turn of events plagued him with horrors he thought had been eliminated, with thoughts that had him sweating and resentful on the mattress that felt all too small; and he dared not step foot out of his chamber—not even answer annoying pep calls from Quistis and Chickenwuss—for the sake of losing his mind.

Simply put, Seifer felt like shit.

And that feeling magnified when the door to his room slid open with a hiss.

"Seifer."

"_Shit_," he growled, narrowing his eyes as he burrowed deeper under the covers. "_Shit_, get the fuck out."

Knitting his brow, he cursed when the familiar form—no, that sure as hell is _not_ Squall; get that straight—walked over to the side of the bed and sat on it. "Glad to see that I'm welcome," he heard along with the faint view of those eyes that tugged on his fingertips, that made him want to run his palm along that jaw. Yet, he fought it, because this was _not_ Squall, not the grumpy little munchkin who always kicked him off of the bed and hogged the covers, not the same man who didn't have that reckless gleam in his gaze. "Do you mind?"

"Why are you here?"

"Can't I be here?"

"You're _not _Squall."

The other arched an eyebrow and looked at him in dry expectancy. "You sure about that?"

"Stop fucking with me."

"I'm not," replied the younger male, and Seifer found himself raising his guard as the expected candidness from the original became twisted into a form of acerbic play that this being now displayed. There was nothing mundane about this wraith, other than the fact that the outward appearance was exactly the same, and boldness emanated through a single flicker of his eyes. "But I am who I am."

"You're not proving anything to me."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you're part of Squall, not the whole thing." Grabbing the pill bottle, he popped two of the meds into his mouth and swallowed them dry, narrowing his gaze at the blatant indifference and expectancy. "See? If you were the real thing, you wouldn't have even let me take these babies. And plus, you're being a dickwad"

"It takes one to know one."

"Yeah, yeah; damn, why the hell are you even here? Go bother someone else."

"You're in a sorry state. Grab your gunblade and let's go."

Seifer craned his neck up to see the volatile shine of Lionheart glaring into his eyes, and he muttered an oath as he looked the other way, scrubbing at the annoying stubble on his chin. A strange surge of anger pushed towards the surface when he realized the prized weapon in the grasp of this reckless facet of Squall, that this fool had the audacity to wield it in that selfish manner, the line of his mouth set grimly. There were no reservations about this phantom, no control or thought: He was demanding as he was acute, and to think that this side of Squall was unleashed, the most dangerous side, had him strained.

Feral—that's what this part was.

That feral display was what had him lugging Hyperion to the training center at six a.m.

"Terms."

"First blood."

"That isn't the usual."

"_This_ isn't the usual," Seifer bit, irked at the wild gleam in the other's eyes. "So, shut up and do it."

As soon as he said those words, the angry clash of steel against steel rang loudly in his ears, and a gaze as cold as ice robbed his vision as he stumbled back, regaining his footing on the slippery foliage. He was now on the defensive, and though it was not a position he was unused to, the current situation morphed the familiarity into uncharted waters that had him pushed instead of pushing; because slash after slash, cut after cut, relentless assault after the other, he had no choice but to block and evade, with no time to parry one single attack. Every move was indescribably savage, uncalculated, and greedy for his labors.

"Is this it? It's hardly worth the effort."

Seifer narrowed his eyes, quickly dodging a crazy swipe to his upper half. "Open that trap again, and you'll regret it."

"Speak for yourself."

The last comment, strangely, gave him enough power—rage—to break through the chain of blows and advance one step forward; Hyperion seemed to finally sing through the air as it surged towards his opponent, and Seifer growled with every offensive move he was allowed to get in, which was fortunately happening more than the necessity to evade or parry. But he did not get his pride to get the better of him—not when the personification of the most dangerous game sported lightning in his eyes and the will to hack and slash without a comprehension of limits. This being was not Squall: It was the reckless side of him, with nothing else to dilute the concentration of untamed determination. Lionheart itself seemed to unleash hysteria under this facet's crazed abuse.

And when he heard the early chatter of trainees headed this way, he knew that this supposed battle had to stop—the main reason had nothing to do with students or the faculty, or even the wake of the center's monsters. It was that frenzied impetus to win that had his tongue bitter with the unique taste of peril; it was that wicked gleam and the nearly indiscernible flurry of assaults that had his hands set to end this pointless fray. He knew that this phantom would not stop if he did not halt it, if he did not kill it off, and he didn't need extra shit packed into his life if word got out that Headmaster Leonhart was now attempting to murder Commander Almasy.

Thus, he went for that one spot: the blindside, the smoke, the catch—the previously wounded lower left of his back; it was dirty, he knew, to exploit that one area, but desperation had invariably coerced man to do his worst. Squall himself had arranged his battle paradigms to incorporate protection or coverage of his weak spot, and though he shielded it well, this particular side of him seemed ignorant to any calculations and strategies. Muttering a curse, he thrust the flat of Hyperion forward and hoped that he wasn't as crazy as he had feared.

"Damn."

It worked.

Yeah, damn.

"First blood."

"Hell yeah."

Damn _straight_.

"This battle is over," Seifer finalized, brandishing his weapon before he turned his back on his adversary. "I'm leaving."

But before he trudged away, he turned back and looked at those distant eyes and sparks of indignation, the acute analysis of no words. He suppressed the need to claw for his pain medications and instead wedged a cigarette in his mouth as he snorted.

"And don't fucking bother me again."


	3. Chapter 3

"Post-traumatic stress disorder, my ass," Seifer darkly muttered, rubbing his aching eyes in agitation.

"Um … here's your prescription, s-s-sir."

"Give it here."

Snatching the bag of meds from the pharmacist, Seifer glowered at all he could see as he strode away, purposely ignorant of the hushed whispers and civilians who looked at him in open fear. He didn't want to come down into town, nor did he want to present himself in this haggard and irrational state, but by the eager pushing of Doc, he had coerced his body to get out of the bed and make the quick trek to Balamb Pharmacy. And by the looks of it, people here were already getting the message that Commander Almasy as not in the best mood to wave hello and ask for assistance—if the large expanse of open space around him did not testify to that.

Thus, exiting the town had been rapid and silent, aspects the gunblader found to necessary. He scrambled around in his mind and located Diablos, and pushed the message forward that he did not wish for any more random encounters with the wildlife, that his head was going to split if one more damn thing was going to bother him; the guardian force was unhappy at the knowledge of abstaining from the thrill of battle—that much, he could tell, just by the way another pulsating throb to his temple hit him after his demand. However, after promising him a full twenty-four hours of scaling the Trabian plains for another control mission, Diablos relented and cast the weave of magic over him, allowing the trip to Balamb to only take fifteen minutes. But it throughout the once sought after journey that he was filled with indignation and despair at the thought of using these guardian forces: allies who did not belong to him, allies who had been dispersed and stripped off of the now divided Headmaster for safety precautions. It was throughout this early morning escape that he was burdened with the reality that he had no idea how to bring Squall back from this outrage.

And Seifer found each step to be unbearably heavy.

His room, as it was before, was cold, silent, empty, and devoid of any light when his doors slid open; he should've been used to it now, but the dead sight made him feel like a small child lost in a place he shouldn't be in—and that was exactly how he felt at this moment, still outside of his threshold, looking at the drawn curtains and the cold picturesque outlines of it all. Everything—_everything_—seemed so Spartan; there was no presence of homeliness in these walls, not when home was right across. But he bit his pride and anger and stepped through to seek temporary respite.

Suddenly, he paused, hearing a soft noise coming from the eastern area of his quarters. The noise was faint, and he had to strain his hearing in order to pick up the noise. Furrowing his brow, Seifer shakily breathed as he entered his living space, and went into the hallway, opening the various doors that he thought were before the sound; it became apparent that his senses were failing him that day, and soon, the last door—his main bedchamber—loomed in his vision, surely shielding he mystery. With a sigh, pushed the button for entry and looked in.

"The hell?"

Another Squall of the day, Seifer grudgingly realized, was seated on the floor, toying with some furry-looking thing. When the other noticed that he was not alone, he hastily got up from his position and dropped the object, making it make a mewling sound before it hit the ground and took off running into the blonde's direction. The two of them stared at each other for the longest while—until, that is, this Squall turned away and cast his gaze on the floor, not before Seifer realized that the furball was indeed Scruffy-kins, the damn cat.

"You need something?" the oldest stated, noting that this facet wasn't that belligerent one from yesterday. As irritated as he was, he became even more annoyed when the facet wouldn't meet his gaze, constantly looking to the side or the ground while he pressed his fingers behind his back. "Hey, speak to me, or get lost."

"I … I cleaned the rooms."

"What?"

The latter continued, "I cleaned the rooms while you were gone." He slowly flickered his eyes upwards, meeting the corner of the commander's confused gaze. "And fed the cat. And … stuff."

"_Okay_ …"

Arching an eyebrow, Seifer trudged over to the bed—perfectly made—and set down his bag, unresisting of Scruffy leaping onto his shoulder due to age-old habit. He grunted as he eased off his boots, and shrugging off his trench coat after he propped Hyperion against the wall, he reached in the drawer and took out a cigarette, swiping his finger over the tip to light it. Yes, Squall—the real one, the one who should've been right here on the bed, reading manuscripts through dorky little glasses—had reinforced the need to quit smoking, and abusing magic to light his stick, but he couldn't give a shit. Because, simply put, Squall was _not_ here.

And Seifer never listened, anyway.

"Is there something else?" the blond heard, craning his head to look at said being with a bemused, acute expression. The other gradually took a step forward and shook his head at the reaction, knitting his brow as he hesitantly looked at Seifer's sprawled position. "I mean … I don't mind working on anything." A pause. "That is …"

Narrowing his gaze, the commander accidently chomped on his cigarette as the diagnosis clonked him over the head. So, definitely, this side of Squall was not the one from yesterday, nor did he seem all too foreign—in fact, he thought with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, this Squall was familiar, with eyes cast low and furrowed brows, with his eyes trained on Scruffy and the floor. Nostalgia swamped his senses, and it was then Seifer crushed his cigarette in the palm of his hand.

This Squall was here before. "You … you're …" This Squall was the sea and shells and chocolate chip cookies. "You're still in him." This Squall was the romantic dream he never realized and the little sandcastles among high tide. "Why."

"Seifer."

"I thought that little boy went away," he gutturally said. "Squall told me he—_you_—were dead." Damn. "You _have_ to be."

"I'm not. I can't." Carefully reaching for his cat, the younger man settled him on his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, sighing when he acknowledged that he was unraveled. "I never was."

"What the—"

"Because Squall never let me go."

Gritting his teeth, Seifer unsteadily exhaled and raked his fingers through his hair, suddenly wishing that he had some strong stuff lined up on the nightstand. They could only look at each other, and for the first time since, sea-grey eyes met his without flinching, and here it was again that he could only realize how wide and trusting they were—how wide and trusting they opened up for him, for that bratty eight-year-old who never really noticed that high regard. Here it was again that childhood came to bite him in the ass when he least expected it.

"Well, I don't know what to say."

"Seifer—"

"Because I'm going to be honest: Little kid Seifer isn't here, and no way in hell am I going to fragment into little pieces for him to appear, not that I could."

"I know."

"Then, why the cleaning and the rest of the stuff? You have a motive, and I want to know what it is."

Scruffy-kins licked his hand as the latter spoke. "I've never minded the cleaning. You always made me do it, remember?" When he received a deadpan look, the facet shyly cast his eyes downward and subconsciously played with the purring cat's shiny coat. "I …" Apprehension. "It's the same. I can't … I can't stay out here, Seifer. I'm too different."

"No shit."

"The others—the other sides of Squall—don't like me. If you compare me to them, I'm considered whole because I'm the past side of Squall; I'm not just a characteristic."

"I'm still lost."

"To put it simply, I'm looking for a way to put everything back together—how to get Squall back, the same thing you're looking for."

" … _all right_ …" Sitting up, the gunblader propped his head on the headboard of the bed and scrutinized the unguarded pose and expression of the persona he thought had been destroyed. Damn, but did it hurt to look at the little kid in Squall face-to-face. It even hurt more when he realized that he had to accept this ally, no matter how unwilling he was—anything to get Squall back before he lost his mind. "Fine: So, you want to help me."

"Yeah." Once more: "Yeah. To make everything okay."

"And that's clearly what I want, too, so listen up." To heck with getting drunk this evening. "How many more facets are there?"

"I … I don't know." This side guiltily looked away—god, how easily he could read his eyes—and fidgeted with the bed sheets. "I went to the beach."

To get away from everything, Seifer inwardly finished. But he held his tongue and kept his mind firm: Would something work from this alliance? He didn't know, but he would try anything at this point.

"Fine. But we know that we have company; big company."

"Yeah."

"So, I was thinking …"

And to think that this was just the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

God damn, it was like Seifer had a feline trailing after him.

Except, in this case, this particular feline was _the _Commander Leonhart in the outside world, and coming up with excuses for shy smiles and open eyes was getting pretty tiring. The guy practically tailed him everywhere: missions, visits, getting some booze and cigs. It was impossible to see Commander Almasy going anywhere without Headmaster Leonhart right next to him, and the latter didn't even mind the five ashtrays at his quarters, although his gaze would show a troubled battle between speaking his mind and letting Seifer do whatever the hell he wanted.

Pretty soon, Balamb Garden was filled with talk: It was already known that the Commander and Headmaster were in a relationship, but their close proximity these days was simply strange. Hell, even Seifer's colleagues were arching their eyebrows whenever he called a meeting or even invited them over to the pub for some drinks. The rumor was that Commander Almasy and Headmaster Leonhart were celebrating some anniversary or important milestone in their bond—worse, the biggest one was that marriage was very, very close by.

"It's idiocy like that that makes me gag," Seifer gruffly responded, adjusting his lenses as he peered over the large mountain of paperwork on his desk. "How do kids even come up with these ridiculous things?"

"Not just kids, blondie. Government officials, staff members, citizens. Hyne, even the _gatekeeper_."

"What the _fuc—_I mean … _What_?"

A glare. "Laugh again, and you'll be regretting it, you tool."

It was irritating to watch Nathan amusedly chuckle at his current position—yeah, he was a douchebag, but he wasn't _that_ type of douchebag that made dickwads look innocent. And the little man, the almighty Headmaster of Balamb Garden reduced to his eight-year-old state, practically followed him everywhere. He was even here now, apparently working on a coloring book about chocobos a few feet away from his desk while he and Nathan began their usual banter. Using profanity … in retrospect, using anything profane was simply just _wrong_, and his previous behaviors that fateful day of their first encounter bothered him quite a bit.

Hell, he thought as he grimaced. He felt like a trailer-trash uncle attempting to raise his dead brother's kid so he could nab the support money. His attempts at restraining his mundane habits, and habits that resurfaced recently after Squall's fraction, simply backfired on him, and it made him feel like the dirtiest piece of shit ever when the kid looked at him with wide, oblivious eyes that didn't really know right from wrong completely.

Seifer lowered his voice, fighting the urge to nab another cigarette. "You're not being your usual bastard self, dear cousin. Could it possibly be that you discovered we're not biologically related?"

The hair. The eyes. The voice. Even the height. Nathan Almasy seemed to be his physical brother instead of a mere cousin, and it wouldn't take a genius to know that the two were tied by familial bonds. Except, of course, Nathan was a joker, an open philanderer, too easygoing to match Seifer's brusque and candid outlooks on life—but detecting a nuance in the system was much too easy for both of them, and the morning visit by the former was indeed off as soon as the man spoke.

"No, not really. I assure you that your lineage is linked with mine, no matter how unfortunate that is."

"Then, stop acting like you have a stick up your—" There it was again. "Stop_ stalling_."

"You know, if everything was normal, that'd actually be pretty funny."

"So, something isn't normal?"

"_You're_ not normal."

"What do you want me to say to that?" Seifer dryly inquired, sighing as he tossed his paperwork onto his desk. "How should I respond to that?"

"Esthar—"

"They can't do anything." Repeating what the scientists told him last week made his mouth go dry, and the simple image of Squall with Scruffy and his coloring book in the corner was just too much for his eyes to take. He didn't really know how to feel about the entire situation—he shit-sure wasn't depressed and moping about, but he wasn't ecstatically hopeful for perfect and rapid results. "Matron, Cid, and Loire have no idea, either. That leaves Doc and the rest of our little goonies: You honestly think that they have a single clue?"

A pause. Thoughts. A frown. "And the Guardian Forces?"

"What about them?"

"I—"

He narrowed his eyes. "Is this the issue that's causing you to look like you're sucking a shi—_a lot _of lemons? You lost one of the prototypes we found, didn't you? And you're changing the subject."

"Damn, just hear me out, man!"

"This is probably my millionth time doing so."

"No, what I'm talking about is the concept of communication with the Guardian Forces."

" … You lost me there, buddy."

He didn't like Nathan's sigh one bit. He also didn't like the way his hopes kind of sprang up in his guts. "Squall?"

"Y-Yeah?"

God damn, if that lucid gaze could make him speak any further. There was open confusion and expectancy for him to speak in those eyes, and if Seifer looked hard enough, he could see the neatly colored-in shape of Boko, which made him feel like a mega asshole for being who he was. It didn't help that Scruffy had those sagacious ninja eyes that seemed to know everything about his current predicament.

"You look tired," he lamely stated. "Why don't you and Scruffy take a nap?"

"But the laundry …"

"I'll do it, okay? It's not smart to strain your eyes for a long time."

"Oh. Okay."

"Is that really him?" questioned his cousin, crossing his arms against his chest as the door softly slid open and shut. "The past?"

"Yeah." He needed a cigarette so badly. "But, anyway, back to what you were saying."

"Right."

He watched Nathan pace back and forth as the latter attempted to find the right words to say, and truthfully, he didn't appreciate the slight unease the guy was showing. Hell, Natey-Boy wasn't _supposed _to be uneasy—he was supposed to be the righteous, ass-licking bastard who didn't really give a damn for decorum. He was supposed to shrug at everything and make lewd jokes about Seifer's nonexistent sex life, and possibly deplete all his funds with a quick smile at the banker. The fact that he was taking on his odd habit of looking to the side in tight situations only made Seifer clench his jaw.

But finally, Nathan spoke: "Have you ever talked with any of your Guardian Forces?"

_What?_

"I mean, aside from telling them to kiss my ass when they start threatening you for disturbing their sleep and kidnapping them, I'm going to say that I haven't." Something didn't feel right—like, it was _way_ off the scale of oh-shit-what. "Why?"

"This year, one of my Guardian Forces began to talk to me."

"What the—"

"Just listen first," the other interrupted, looking at his gunblade. "I found him fused with my gunblade. Just suddenly, one day, when I was trying to take down a new G.F. for Odine, the little dude popped up from my weapon, and made it significantly stronger. I was able to take down that G.F. within three minutes after it came out." A sigh. "But, that's not the point. The point is that these guys talk to you, and Loki, as he's called, was the first. Then, Hydra came after, and now, even Dahaka."

" … I have _no _idea what you're smoking."

Whipping out a cigarette, Seifer lighted it quickly and watched Nathan rake his fingers through his hair in frustration. Why was _he_ frustrated? _Seifer_ should be the one telling him to get his sorry ass back to Galbadia and stop confusing him any further—hell, stop making him sit on the edge of his seat in anticipation for a solution, just _any_ solution. Desperation was making him look like a drowned cat who cried that it didn't need help, and knowing that fact didn't improve his mood.

"_Look_, man, I think I have an idea about where you should start."

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

Nathan said it. _He said it_. There was no going back on his words, now.

"My Guardian Forces: They said that something in the air isn't right. Loki, especially. It's not a problem science can solve, Seifer. It's a metaphysical and spiritual matter. It's a matter of force."

" … That is?"

"From what I've seen and heard, Squall must've had some funky encounter with a devious Guardian Force, or he was exerting their powers to an impossible extent. Or possibly, he was—"

"You mean to tell me that Squall was doing some voodoo shit?" It was his turn to laugh, and it wasn't a very happy laugh. "Sorry to break your professionalism, sweetheart, but Squall isn't a dumbass. He _knows _what he can't and can handle."

"But what if this was something_ new_?" Something _what_? "What if Squall discovered a new side, a new power, of the Guardian Forces? Wouldn't you of all people know that he won't let it rest?"

He refused to believe this. "He'd report it firs—"

"Seifer, he's the goddamn _Headmaster_; everyone here reports to _him_, not the other way around."

"That still doesn't mean anything."

"Fine, then. I recently went through my reports on the area, and I've noticed some odd things." Nathan quirked his lips. "_Don't even_, man. I _do_ have authority."

"God save your stupid ass."

"Thanks. But, seriously." His cousin was sure to leave a hole in his carpet, but Seifer couldn't bring himself to care—not when his guts were taking odd dives at this strange news. "During the couple of months before this incident, Squall Leonhart was seen to have left the Balamb Garden premises multiple times a week for reasons that are not known."

"He was training, or maybe even taking a break."

"Why the hell are you deluding yourself? Xu and Quistis have said that Squall was missing quite a few times, and not even you knew where he was. And judging by the look on your face, I'm solidly inferring that he didn't tell you where he'd go, either."

" … Shit."

He didn't know what bothered him more—Nathan having more clues and info about Squall's whereabouts, or him not getting any fucking answers from Squall when none of this ever happened. And most of all, it was pretty damn frustrating that it took Nathan _one month _to tell him all about … _all of this_.

"Look, this is what I want you to do."

He honestly didn't know _shit_.

"Talk with your Guardian Forces. You're going to think that it's useless, but just do it. Especially with Diablos and Ifrit, since you both have exchanged junctions multiple times."

"And if it doesn't work?"

Nathan looked at him. "Why don't you do as I say first, and then, you can decide whether you want to skin me or boil me?"

It was a first.

But whatever.

"Don't make me regret this."


	5. Chapter 5

Seifer felt incredibly stupid.

He had actually taken the time to communicate with the various Guardian Forces Balamb Garden monitored, and the entire process took another three weeks. During those three weeks, his mental and physical state suffered quite a bit—he had refused to take enough breaks in between each session, and it didn't help that each G.F. had specific traits and thought processes that simply made Seifer tie himself up in knots. There were no solid answers; the closest "answer" he had received was the caution of a particular Guardian Force Diablos knew about.

Griever.

That made Seifer feel very stupid.

First of all, Griever didn't exist, anymore. Ultimecia probably took him down with her, even if Squall had absorbed some of its voodoo shit. There was no possibly way for that fat cat to survive after all the mayhem.

Second of all …

_That is all I know, human._

Diablos was being a dick.

Clearly, he knew more. He was withdrawing information Seifer direly needed, but for what reason, he had no clue. He didn't understand why the G.F. was acting so vague—Diablos was known for being much too candid and aggressive, unable to hold back any thought he wanted to express. The two of them were playing this guessing game for far too long.

In the end, there was no solution.

No answers.

And no Squall.

Which made training with Lightning a living hell.

"You're stalling," he heard her cut, sharper than the blades they held. "Too slow."

The swift kick to his side hurt like a bitch, but Seifer merely grunted. "Judging by the way you're about to dish me up like duck meat, I'm guessing that you and Hope—"

"_Shut. Up._"

Yes, shut up, indeed. Shut up, shut up, _shut up_. That was all he wanted to say for the remainder of his time.

"You know what I'm going to say," she said later on, the both of them breathing heavily against the wall of the training center.

"Yeah. But, I can't help it." He couldn't—he needed answers. He had to keep digging, albeit his exposure to the Guardian Forces was too much at one time. His body and mind were taking a nosedive; but_ god_, if that was what it took to get Squall back—

"He wouldn't be happy, you know." A breath. "To see you in such a sorry state."

Seifer laughed. "Well, that guy was never happy with my ass to begin with, so I'm entitled to do as I please."

"Seifer."

It was sad, really. The back of her hand rested against his forearm as the gesture that always made him smile, as the gesture that took him over three years to pull, as the gesture that made shit turn out to be okay, but he didn't really respond the way he should've. There was no relief, no quick laughs. Icicle and Retard were what they were mundanely, yet at the moment …

It was just really, really, _really_ sad.

No poise, no decorum. It didn't even matter that they acted loosely as friends. These weekly visits to each other were strained.

Because Seifer being a dumbass downer, and Lightning had personal problems of her own to deal with.

Because, four hours later after she left, watching Squall fold their laundry, he was still contemplating another couple of hours in depth with Odin this time. He could understand why workaholics didn't bother justifying their reasons to keep a thousand things on their plates—exhaustion and anticipation were like drugs: They kept those certain people content with the feeling of accomplishing _anything_ while everything else in their lives were shit. Becoming a sitting duck was the last thing Seifer wanted to be.

In retrospect, however, he was only ruining himself. The rush would never outweigh his sufferings. He hadn't felt like this since—

"Seifer."

Since—

"Seifer."

"What?"

"Seifer, don't be sad," he heard the other say. His head hurt from staring at the ceiling for too long, and his ass was tired of being glued to the couch, but he was alert, especially at the feeling of something light dropping onto his lap.

It was a sand dollar. Hexagonal, simple, and smooth.

"I found this at the beach today; it was the only perfect one I found."

"Didn't even know we had those things in Balamb."

"I was surprised, too." A pause. "It reminded me of you."

"Oh, yeah?"

So damn sad.

"Yeah."

_Yeah_. Yeah, an eight-year-old was basically telling him to straighten himself up; yeah, an eight-year-old was putting in the effort to prevent him from having another angst fest long into the night. He felt foolish: He felt as if he instead was the eight-year-old, not the kid in front of him who had the body of a man fifteen years his senior.

The sand dollar seemed to stare into him like an expectant captain, and Seifer bowed his head as he allowed Scruffy to pounce onto his arm. Strange as it was, the urge to snag a cigarette didn't manifest his mind that moment.

"It's not Christmas," he lamely stated. "Not in a couple of months."

"I know. But I just wanted to give that to you."

" … I don't have anything for _you_."

Apparently, he was wrong, because the next second, Squall shook his head, grabbed something obscure from his pocket, and held it up to his ear as he spoke. "No, you gave me this." A seashell—a seashell Seifer found the second day he encountered this particular version of Squall.

"Man, I didn't even know you still kept that thing."

"Listen, Seifer."

To what?

"Can you hear it?

Hear what?

"I can hear it, and so can you."

So could he.

The ocean. The breeze. The birds. Waking up at two a.m. to sneak up to Balamb Beach and greet the cold waters.

With Squall. Hesitant, unsure, sleepy. His hand would grab the other's as they pushed past the first tides and began to compete. Who would swim the most? Who would get scared first and turn back?

"Do you remember?"

He breathed. "Y-Yeah."

"I don't know what other people are saying, Seifer," the other began, looking at his eyes that were so confused. "I don't know why all of this happened.

"But I do know that Squall misses you as much as you miss him. All these different sides of Squall, even me: We are affected. We feel something funny, and sometimes, it hurts. We feel like someone locked the door, and we can't get out.

These days, my chest feels weird. It stings. I didn't know what it was, but I do know now that Squall is somewhere near—"

"He's _what_?"

Seifer was incredulous, snapping out of his reveries as he grasped the younger man's shoulders and gazed intensely into the wide eyes that looked pained. Those words: _God_, was there now a chance? Squall was near? Was this possible?

… But it … _hurts_?

"I can feel him. He needs help. It's hard to breathe sometimes when I feel that he misses you a lot, a lot, _a lot_."

"You can feel him?"

That nod nearly sent him reeling backwards. "Y-Yeah. At first, I thought it was because I was sick. But I think I hear his voice, now—I … I don't know. I just _feel_."

"You're … what about the others?"

"I don't know."

Seifer cursed: Of course, the multiple facets that he knew of were more content with destroying the shit out of this kid. They were merciless, and the little man in front of him practically had to have a bodyguard to actually go to the bathroom. If they ever saw him by himself, there'd be no way to say that Squall's childhood would even exist, and after hearing this miraculous piece of info, the need for him to be safe was top priority for Seifer. He had this raw suspicion that the different sides of Squall simply felt faint pangs of the real deal reaching out for him—they couldn't feel anything more than that, not like this kid.

The kid was, officially, the only link to the true Squall Leonhart.

"I hear these noises that are loud and annoying when I feel Squall try to talk to me. Well, at least I _think_ he's trying to talk to me."

Hopefully, Squall was. But the problem was that the kid had physical consequences when Squall tried to do so, and Seifer felt frustrated. He wanted Squall to spam communication, but at the same time, he didn't want the latter to strangle his childhood and cause him misery.

"God, kid, what am I going to do with you?" he breathed, ruffling that stubborn hair he often teased Squall about. "What am I going to do?"

Squall folded the sand dollar into his hand, and closed it.

For now, he could only wait.


End file.
